From Fen to Glen
by Magical Maeve
Summary: Salazar Slytherin is old and weary, but still working his own brand of magic. He finds himself in a tavern in the northern town of Alnwick, reflecting on what was, and on what could have been.
1. Prologue

The hand-carved sign outside the Splurge and Spigott creaked ominously under the onslaught of the wild North wind, and the dirt-dark windows gave little sign of the dubious comforts to be had within.

The rough track that passed before it was empty, only wheel ruts in the middle of the dust gave any sign that people actually used this road. A few houses had burst from the ground, their upper floors leaning forward, as if paying homage to the fact they stood at all. Alnwick was a small, yet flourishing, skirmish of a town, settled on the river Aln. Traders crossed the river here, and it was steadily growing in importance as a trade route between England and the settlement in Edinburgh.

Only one lone figure could be seen tramping up the quiet street, his robes pulled tight against the same wind that played with the inn sign. He glanced up the track, his eyes naturally drawn to the gritty lane that led towards his latest project. It had been surprisingly easy to persuade Gilbert de Tesson that he was the man for the job. A little potion slipped into his mead had produced the desired contract, and Salazar was once more in gainful employment. It amused him, this work for Muggles, work that would ultimately fail and collapse and cause them grief.

Salazar was an old man now, his past glories fading into insignificance. He had lost so much, and gained so little, and yet he was unbowed and unrepentant.

This bone-biting wind was unlike anything he had experienced in the county of his youth, the beautiful and benevolent fens that harried the bustling settlement on the river Cam. There, meadows were sweet with wheat and barley, and the only wind that blew was a gentle caress from the weakening North Sea. Up in this forsaken place, the North Sea was wilder, ready with its whip to blister the unwary traveller.

He finally made it to the door of the inn, and pushed it open firmly. These Muggles knew so little, and yet, he found himself drawn to them now, like a dizzy moth to a painful flame. Perhaps it was his child, his squib of a child, that had finally made him feel some connection with these magic-deprived creatures. So much had been expected of his son. A child with such a pedigree should have been the prize of the litter, not the runt.

Just thinking about Ruairi caused him regret. Ruairi, who was the image of his mother, in all but one way. He lacked the magic.

The oaf behind the bar of the inn was slow to cease his conversation with the young warrior who stood – although only barely after the amount of ale he must have imbibed – in the corner closest to the turf fire.

"And what'll it be?" he asked finally, surveying Salazar with a cold eye. Strangers were a common enough sight now, but here was a stranger with shadows about him. The innkeeper was wary.

"A jug of mead," Salazar said gruffly. He cast a few coins onto the bar and took the earthenware vessel that was offered to him. Word would get out soon enough that he was here to construct a castle. Perhaps then the local gossips would wish to speak to him, prise information out of him, plant seeds of dissention against the Norman lord in his mind. Fools.

He took a seat by the door, natural caution making him want an easy escape. A castle. It had been a long time since he had constructed a castle. The mead slipped down easily, not quite warming his core. His most famous castle still stood, more spectacular than any Muggle construction, and with more secrets. Hogwarts. Its fine turrets stood proud in his mind, catching the sharp sun of the Highlands. It had been his triumph, and his disaster. The one person he had ever loved remained there, while he had left under the shadow of the other three founders' disapproval. He narrowed his eyes, concentrating on memory.

Memories confused the mind, befuddled the senses.

In Salazar's head, the day he had first encountered Rowena Ravenclaw had been bright, a heady sun breathing warmth into everything. But in reality, their first meeting had been very different…


	2. Birth

Salazar was born to a bewildered, but not unattractive, peasant girl in a remote village high up in the mountains that separated Afghanistan from its neighbour Pakistan. Indeed, her lack of ugliness could have been said to be the cause of her child-bound predicament. Her popularity with the young men of her village was destined to end in trouble. Not that her son ever knew this, of course. Salazar was taken, at the age of five, by the slave traders of the region, who carried him in a wooden cage across the mountains to the ancient city of Kabul. They treated him well, surprisingly, and he was fed and watered along with their animals. He did not know how much they had paid his mother for him, nor why his mother had been so quick to sell her only child. He could not have known that, despite her best efforts to integrate her child into the life of the village, and the hasty marriage to a young man in the opposite hut, it had been obvious from the start that he was not going to fit in.

For a start, there was his attraction to snakes. In normal circumstances, this would have been a good thing, given that snakes were sacred creatures in the religion to which he was born. But Salazar _talked_ to the snakes, he spent time with them. The sight of a toddler babbling with snakes was enough to convince the superstitious villagers that he was Naga, the god of the snakes, and that he had come to punish them for their transgressions. In Salazar's second year, the crops failed totally. And the villagers looked to the child for answers. At first they feted him, but when an unfortunate incident arose with a Cobra and the village elder's granddaughter, something had to give. Salazar was decreed to be a liability and they called him Kaliya, the bringer of disaster. They could not harm him, for fear of inciting the gods to further retribution, but they quietly, and effectively, shunned his mother and her family. And the other problem was his volatility. This manifested itself in many ways. He had a remarkable capacity, even when he was as young as one year old, for wreaking havoc. Be it by causing the modest fire in the centre of his mother and step-father's hut to flare out of control and set light to the roof (by the time the slave trader bought him, they were on their fifth roof, so his quick sale could have been understandable to these subsistence farmers) or by wearing his mother down with his ability to cry for days on end. When normal babies would have been settled by their mother's milk or the gentle respite of sleep, Salazar seemed to lust after something else, something his frustrated baby-body could not articulate.

Even at this age, Salazar wanted power.

By the time the traders took him, he was well-advance in his belief that the world began and ended with him. The fact that the traders treated him with something bordering on respect furthered this notion in the young child's brain. He arrived in Kabul with a brain far advanced from that of a normal five-year-old; he seemed to understand much more about the world around him than an average village child, and this sometimes made his temporary owners nervous. Perhaps it was out of fear that they kept the boy fed and comfortable.

Kabul was a dusty, aromatic bustle of a city. Bazaars filled with spices and leatherwork, woven carpets and heavy pots and pans – a feast for any clamour-hungry shopper – vied with makeshift eating places for the attention of anyone with a few spare coins or something to barter. An oasis sat to the East of the centre of this impressive trading place, a shock of green against the saffron-coloured earth surrounding it. Salazar was excited beyond reason by all of this. The shouts of the traders traced a lively path above his head, and his dark eyes drank hungrily of the scenes before him. He could never have conceived that somewhere something so wonderfully exciting existed. His child's brain was growing by the second, absorbing all these new possibilities.

And then he saw the section of the market that was reserved for slave trading, and his tiny eyes narrowed. Big men and narrow women were all huddled together in cages much bigger than his own, shackles keeping them close to the bars. He looked at the dead faces of the people being sold, made the connection between their current homes and his, and suddenly, violently, he understood what his captors intended to do. They were going to put him with those people, those battered, half-people – and his small mind was made up. Salazar would not be a slave to anyone, not even as a child. His tiny hands would be put to use in some field of crops, or he would be used by one of the weavers; his thin, agile fingers a bonus for his owner. No, this was not what had been decided for him, of that he was sure.

He waited until they clattered him to the ground, dust rising as he made contact with the scorched earth. Looking around, he sought what he needed; in the corner, coiled around a large urn, was a Krait. This snake was not large, but in possession of sharp teeth and a quick body. He opened his mouth and began to call in a low voice, the hiss of Parseltongue rousing the creature from its slumber. Its eyes were barely discernable from the rest of its sleek head, but Salazar knew they were there, watching him, appraising him.

"Help me," he said, his mouth more at ease with this snake language than the Farsi that his own people spoke. "Help me be free like you."

The snake moved swiftly towards him. "Why should I help you?" it responded, slithering ever closer.

"Because I am a snake too," Salazar said. "but I didn't get your body."

The child's simple logic was not lost on the reptile, for it was clear that the boy did indeed speak the snake tongue.

"Very well," it hissed. "What would you have me do, snakechild?"

"Bite that." He pointed to the thick rope that kept the door of his cage tightly closed. With one eye on the men that had captured him he realised they would not be long with the drinks that they had purchased from the pretty, curly-locked young woman who was resting her arms, and her ample chest, on the table from which she served the ale.

With a flick of its tongue, the snake was instantly on the rope, its body blending with the dark-brown bond. To Salazar's relief, the act was accomplished very quickly, and with a hasty thank you to the snake, he pushed open the creaky wood and scurried off into the welcome cover of the bustling market, his short legs making progress slow.

Just as he rounded a particularly wide spice stall, he felt the back of his tattered tunic grabbed, and his legs were suddenly flailing in mid-air.

"Well," a voice said, and a large, ivory face came into view. "What do we have here? Are you lost, young man?"

Salazar registered a few things immediately: the man was draped in expensive silk, and the jewels that adorned his belt were real and of the finest quality – the same quality as the devotional items that were housed in his village's place of worship. The man also had one of the most powerful attitudes that he had ever seen, far more powerful than his foolish stepfather. And he was exotic too, with that blonde hair and penetrating blue eyes.

"Do you have a name?"

Salazar looked at him for a few seconds, and then his eyes dropped to see the Krait, which had apparently followed him, slither away through the stalls.

"Salazar, sire," he squeaked. And then, when he realised that the man expected a surname he made one up. "Salazar Slytherin, sire." Producing a perfectly-timed tear, he looked directly into the man's eyes. "And I am lost. My parents are dead, and some bad men took me from my village. Please help me, sire."

Three days later, Salazar found himself aboard a fine vessel, under the protection of the powerful man that had picked him up during his flight from the market. They were sailing, sailing for a place that Salazar had never even heard of.

Britannia.

He rolled the name across his tongue like a jewel as he stood at the prow of the ship, and knew that he would find what he was looking for on this far shore. He faced the salt spray with elation as his mother country fell behind him.

It was his time; it would be his time.


	3. ReBirth

The ship docked at a bustling port that had recently opened up on the South East coast of England. This fenland was Mercia, a place of industry. The fens provided a welcome system of transport in an otherwise impassable part of the country. Salazar was bundled off the ship along with his new master's belongings, of which there were many. He set foot on slippery land; low, lethargic grass had tried to flourish, but the boggy conditions had proved too much for it. He slipped as he dropped from the gangplank onto firmer ground, slithering along until he stopped himself by hanging onto the rough-hewn jetty. The blonde-haired man, who was yet to give the young boy his name, had roared with laughter and exchanged a joke with the tall noble that had joined him at the harbour side. Salazar watched with interest as a young boy emerged from behind the unknown man's fine-embroidered cloak. Their eyes locked for a few moments and Salazar felt an unwelcome jolt of recognition, an indication of something shared.

He pulled himself to his feet and tried to rub the mud from his clothes, but he only succeeded in ingraining it even further into the tunic his benefactor had provided. Fine English soil mingled well with the warm ochre of the wool he wore, and he was rather proud of the patination he had created. When he looked up again, the man and the pale-faced boy had gone. He felt a shiver of antagonism towards this new land, this Elysium. Britannia had sounded so warm, so glittering. Perhaps there had been a mistake. Perhaps this was a stopping-off point on their journey. Surely the new world could not consist of this low mist that sagged over a wet and weary landscape. He shuddered at its heaviness, wishing there was more of his Himalayan wool to pull around him.

His new master was now crossing the jetty, long strides making little of the slippery wood. The now-familiar hand clapped him on the back and spoke in a language that Salazar did not understand. He had understood him back in Kabul, so why was it different now? Strange, guttural sounds came from the fine mouth and Salazar looked blankly on. His master misunderstood Salazar's incomprehension for wilful disobedience and clipped him around the ear with a heavily-jewelled hand. The little boy was sent spinning against the wooden cross-bars of the jetty. His dark eyes looked up at his master with ill-concealed hatred, the blow ripping from him the sense of wonder he had initially felt at this alliance.

"You child of the devil!" the man said, his tone taunting. "I brought you here because you had the makings of a man, and the eyes of a thief. Do not turn those eyes on them that would bestow upon you favours!"

Salazar resented the words, which he did not understand. He wanted to be off into the covetous mist, his heart telling him that he would be fare better without this man. Something in those blue eyes made his bowels quiver with trepidation, but he also recognised the power that wealth carried. His head, as it was destined to do so many times, won; he bowed low before the man and whispered the word he knew the man liked.

"Sire."

"I am your sire!" the man boomed, "and never forget it, child."

Salazar raised his face, meekness etched in every smooth curve of youthful skin.

But the blonde man was made jovial by being on familiar land and he squeezed his acquisition's shoulder with paternal pride. "And enough of this sire. You may call me your lord, Robert de Malfoi - ally of the current king." He glanced around him with piercing eyes. Once satisfied that the men offloading the ship where busy, he whispered in the young Salazar's ear, "But, young man, when my countrymen traverse the Manche and impose civilisation on these wretches – then we shall truly achieve greatness. You will be with me, and will benefit from my lands and monies."

Salazar understood the word money; it had been bandied about the Raven's Wing (a cursed name for a ship, he had thought) like a cheapened woman. It seemed to him that half the men on ship had it and the other half lusted after it, though he knew that they were all equal and some made bigger boasts than others. Many had been the time they had tried to bribe him into stealing the occasional jewel from his new master, and they had all failed. Salazar felt that the small gold pieces that they offered him were inferior and worthless. He remembered the gold that had circulated infrequently in his village; it had been brilliant and eternal, from Gaul. But that had been pre-Roman. Caesar had harmed the Gauls, plundered their wealth. The tales of Rome's misdeeds had come to him with his mother's milk – far-distant stories that had rung true in the young lad's ears. And yet, there was an air of Rome still clinging to this land. He shied away from the things he knew without foreknowledge; information was lodging itself in his mind and he knew not whence it came.

"Yon wherry awaits!" Robert boomed, and Salazar flinched at the bombast of the man. Must everything be shouted?

The wherry in question was a low-slung vessel that hugged the water as if it were a star-struck lover. Robert oversaw the loading of several chests, leaving Salazar to do much of the fetching and carrying. His light sandals were unsuited to the conditions; it only took a few journeys for a strap to break and he was left to stagger against the conditions with inequality on his feet. He kicked off the remaining sandal and let his toes claw against the rough oak with some determination. Robert saw this and was pleased. He had seen something in the face of the urchin that day in Kabul. He needed servants who were grateful to him, gratitude offered the ultimate commitment. Times were uncertain, allegiances easily broken by a better offer, but this boy had something in his face.

And the child had spoken with snakes.

Only one other man he knew had ever been able to do that, and that man had been at the harbour-side this day.

Edwin Gryffindor had always been an enigma, but Robert understood that such a man made a good ally. He entertained him, made him welcome within his household, favoured him above all others. There was something in the man that Robert knew would be useful, and the urchin would help him with that. He wondered, as he watched the boy struggled with a chest full of Lapis Lazuli, just how soon would be a decent interval before he introduced them. He did not know much about Edwin's child, Godric, but he knew that an enforced friendship between the children would not be a disadvantage.

Salazar curled up on the deck of the wherry, the wherry-man's dog fitting itself to the curve off his body as it too slumbered. Moving across the Broads, curlews flitted low, their mournful call following the travellers to their destination. Soft scents were coaxed from the fronds of plants that lined the waterways, and Salazar unconsciously absorbed them; becoming fully imbibed of his new land without even being aware of it.

By the time the boat had drawn level with a smaller jetty than the one they had recently left, Salazar had taken on board more English smells than he could have imagined: the rich smell of fermenting dung, the nose-crinkling odour of sap drawn from dying wood, water moved by many, and fenland herbs touched by the prow of the vessel. It all took root, replacing the spiced spell of his homeland.

He was hauled off the boat, the dog yelping as he was dragged over its slumberous form, and dumped on ground more solid than the shifting fen country.

"The river Granta," Robert said, with a nod to the swirling waters that eddied beneath a rough-hewn bridge.

Salazar blinked for a few minutes, his child's mind grasping at something. River had some familiarity, and Granta was of a language he had come across before. Could it be that this language was as easy as recognising the new and mixing it with the old?

"Take a pack on your back," his lord continued jovially. "The horses can only manage so much."

And it was bowed low by a huge package of cloth that Salazar Slytherin first caught a glimpse of the modest, yet substantial, manor that was to be the making of him. As his feet scythed through unruly paths, he looked up and saw a proper house for the first time – a house that would withstand even his unusual behaviour. Malfoi's manorial debut was a two-storied house on the banks of the river Cam, and Salazar knew at once that he would be at home there.


	4. Spinning Gold

"Salazar!" His name sang through halls that had been extended many times. As it reached him in the garderobe, the cleaning of which he loathed, he felt a faint glow that eclipsed the odiousness of his task. Scrubbing his lord's shit from the stone was unpleasant at the best of times, but after the Northumbrian crabs had caused such a flux within his digestive system, the job had become unbearable.

His name was called again, urgent, demanding.

The lady Isabelle could ask anything of him and he would respond. She was the shimmer that cloaked his existence, the wheat in his dull bread. Only yesterday she had asked that he go into the meadow that skirted the manor and pull flax so that she could tease it into a thread for her stitching. He had pointed out that she could have bought far finer thread at the local market in Cambridge, as the local hubbub was now so named, but she had declined, saying that which her own hand had created would have more value than some second-hand material.

And her dark, appraising eyes had sent him willingly into the fields, the rare plant duly harvested.

And now he dropped the straw brush he had been using, grinning as it clattered down the brick-lined hole into the river beneath. The kitchen girl would make a new one for him if he gave her a swift smile and a wink.

His calf-skin shoes made little sound against the marble steps as he reached her chamber. The manor now resembled less a house and more a castle, stone upon stone, and a moat – such a pretentious thing, Salazar felt. She was bent over a tapestry, her face a concentration of attitudes, none of which he could read, and he did not wish to read them. He wanted a woman that would remain an enigma – a mystery never to be unwound.

"You took such a time in coming!" she said, every word an exclamation. "And I need you."

Salazar bowed low and offered himself to her, expecting – hoping – that her request would require some adventure, some adversity.

"Lady, you have me."

"I have no gold thread left," she wailed, thrusting her hand against a work held by the frame that Salazar had made for her. "The merchants in Cambridge said it would be May Eve before they could supply me with it." Her bright blue eyes, so reminiscent of her father's, tipped up at him, the vaguest threat of tears evident on the lower lids. "Would that you could supply me with some?"

Would that, he though with an inhibited snort. Would that was usually an implicit threat to produce whatever she wanted or the great Sir Robert would hear of it. And yet, though he often struggled to provide her with her wants, what she could offer him in terms of position outweighing any disadvantage.

"My lady." He bowed low over her knee, bringing his face up to hers, a supplicant begging forgiveness. "Whatever you desire, I would provide. This is an unusual task and one that requires some time."

"You have until nightfall," she replied, an imperiousness in her tone that could only have come from her father.

"But, my lady… "

"You know, my dear Salazar," she began, her voice pure silk against his ears, "I have oft desired you, and yet my father would surely have us both flayed if we… "

Her blush was as pretty as the lilacs that bloomed in the garden as she allowed what the two of them could do to insinuate itself into his mind

"But if we were betrothed. Imagine, Salazar, if you asked for my hand – and my dowry – and I agreed. My father would not resist me, nor would you."

He felt everything he had ever desired solidify in that moment. He could get her the gold, if he tried hard enough – and with the gold would come everything he considered necessary. As the son-in-law of one of the richest men in the South East, he would be unassailable. The flames in the fireplace grew large as he allowed his mind to roam with the possibilities, and only a dainty cough from Isabelle brought him back to the present.

"The gold thread, Salazar," she said, his name an embrace.

"Of course, my lady," he said with deference. "It shall be yours."

"I knew you would not fail me." Her eyes fell to her embroidery, the capital S that she had been working on not lost on the young man that stood before her.

It was cold. Mid-winter had little to recommend itself beyond the coming of Yule and the recently departed Samhain. Of course, such festivities were considered blasphemous, but they still existed and the warm-blooded Afghani welcomed their warmth. But one was long-gone and the other a mere anticipation. The richness of his woollen cloak was gratifying, but even it could not keep out the biting wing that blew in off the river Cam. Only Isabelle's face forced his feet forward towards Mrs Minchpin's. She was a devil of a woman, if the devil could be said to exist – those priests seemed to think he did. A skein of gold thread could be had from her, but only after she had had him – although her breasts were spectacular and her movements lithe, so it wasn't entirely a sacrifice

Her cottage – no, hovel – lay at the end of Silver Street, so named for the sinewy river that ran through it than for any precious metal that could be found there. If he could just make it that far through this biting wind, he would be warmed by her fire, and her body, and could return with the thread within the allotted time.

But he was not to be that unfortunate. As he set foot on the bridge that would lead him to the street in question, a rough-shod parade passed by. He found their bawdiness a strange combination of the obscene and intoxicating. Several horses were being ridden by naked ladies, their straddled legs a sign of depravity in itself, and men juggling fire accompanied them, twists of wood consumed by flames being tossed with abandon into the air. Salazar could smell the heather in their clothes, a new scent to be added to his ever-growing store, and he had to repress the urge to rip one of the women from their mounts and worry her himself. He was, he reminded himself, on a mission that would mean he could have any of these whores whenever he so chose, if only he could secure the lovely Isabelle as his wife.

And then, once the enticements had passed, came the serious part of the parade; the merchants and peddlers, eager to impart their wares onto an eager audience longing for market day. They often arrived a few days before the allotted charter day; flaunting the law and taxation in an attempt to make their way of life pay dividends. It only took a quick glance for Salazar to realise that he would not have to bed Mrs Minchpin that day to secure the means to bed Isabelle.

Midway between the earthenware pots and the ironworkers was a hooded woman with a small cart overloaded with glitter. Salazar was almost blinded by the riches, so much so that he failed to question its authenticity.

He fought his way through several townspeople, one of whom he simply willed out of his way, and who then fell at his feet, and approached the woman with the wares. She raised her head to him, the hood revealing raven hair and a sharp nose that brooked no nonsense.

He forgot the gold thread. He forgot Isabelle. He even forgot Robert de Malfoi, who had been his benefactor and lord for twelve years. Salazar became a man of his own in the few minutes it took the young Scot, Rowena Ravenclaw, to look up at him and ask what he wanted.

For Salazar the question was moot. He wanted her. He had been waiting his whole life for her.


	5. The First Spark

She looked at the lust in the man's eyes and could see her father's forbidding face. It was difficult to be a dutiful daughter on visits to England; all these men of property vying for the attention of a pretty girl. Rowena couldn't understand why they didn't just pay a visit to a brothel and work through their lustful thoughts that way.

"I've only ribbons and threads," she said, watching as he looked quickly over her wares. "Nothing here for a gentleman such as yourself."

"I think a woman with a face such as yours would always have something for a gentleman."

The words were softly spoken, his English accent now fully realised, but she winced at them despite the gentle tone. He was so typical of what she found littering the waysides of the English counties; crude of phrase with lust in his loins. There was nothing there to recommend him beyond his fine hands. Hands like those could do wonders with anything, be it herbs or potions – or a woman's body. And yet, he had a cast to his eyes that was at odds with the simple boisterousness of the town he lived in.

"You are from far shores, my Lord."

She liked the word lord; Rowena had never yet had the opportunity to apply it to a real Lord, and she was sure it wouldn't have the same potent affect as when she applied it to the upstarts that lusted after such a title. But this man seemed dismayed by the use of the word; his face grew hard and distant.

"I would take a yard of your finest goldspun." He reached into his tunic and withdrew a small purse. He was prepared to pay for it, as so many of the men she met were not.

"I do not have real gold, my lord, but a good interpretation of the metal. It is woven well, and your lady would never know, not unless she was a spinner herself."

The look he gave her told her all she needed to know about his lady. There was admiration there, not the desire for possession that he had displayed towards her. He was in the thrall of powerful people, and he would clearly do the most mundane tasks to please them.

"Then you would be better with the haberdashers of your own town rather than relying on my shoddy wares to win her hand." She lowered her eyes, making ready to disengage from this stranger. A middle-aged woman jostled against him, bending her head to feel the quality of the ribbons that were arranged prettily at the front of the table. Rowena was amused to see that he appeared to be struggling with the need to obtain thread and the desire to stay and admire her.

"Give me a yard of the gold," he said, dipping into his purse. "How much?"

She took a length of glittering thread, winding it carefully around a small wooden bobbin before handing it to him. "You may have it for nothing. A lady's hand should have no price."

He looked at her again, shadows crossing his striking face. "You are generous."

"You are a good man." She looked astonished at the words that had fallen from her mouth. She had not meant to say that; hadn't even been aware she was thinking it. He did not seem displeased by her words, smiling as she passed the thread to him.

The spark that was created when their hands touched made the browsing woman jump with alarm. She looked to them both, her blue eyes wide with fear.

"That ain't normal! What dark magic is that?" She pulled her shawl across her chest and scurried away, all thought of cheap ribbon forgotten. Her question remained unanswered as Rowena and Salazar regarded each other carefully. He broke the steady appraisal first by tucking the thread into his purse and putting it away.

"Is it?" Rowena asked quietly, glancing around her, hoping that the bustle around them would mean their conversation could go on unheard.

"Is it what?"

"Magic."

She could tell he was trying to guess whether she knew true magic; his mind was turning several thoughts over and she wondered when he would speak again.

"Are you bedding down in this town tonight?" he asked finally, seeming to have reached a decision.

"I am. We stay here for two days and two nights, and then we leave for London."

"I will meet with you this evening, after my lady has retired for the night. No one must know of it, you understand."

Rowena cocked her head to one side, her sharp features forming into a frown.

"I hope you are not considering an act of faithlessness using me."

"Certainly not!" He looked indignant, as if infidelity had been the last thing on his mind. "I wish to speak with you, that is all. I have felt that spark once before, with a young man of my Lord's acquaintance. I am not in a position to question him, but I trust you will be a little more forthcoming about this – energy – we appear to possess."

"You know not what it is?" She was amused, his lack of knowledge strangely endearing. Her mind's eye turned itself towards the croft that she had shared with her mother and father as a child; the magic that had regularly tumbled from it would surely have captivated this young man. "But it is strong in you; I can feel the heat of it without the need for touch."

"You see that building, with the trough at its door?"

Rowena nodded.

"That is Godwin Culompton's house. I will meet you behind it at dusk. There is a hovel in which he kept his sheep, before they were taken by a violent curse of an illness. It is empty now and will provide adequate shelter should the weather turn against us."

"You seem sure that I shall appear. Would you be terribly disappointed if I did not?" There was a hint of coyness about her as she smiled at him.

"You will come," he said; it wasn't a threat, but she knew he was right.

"Take the thread back to your lady; she will be impatient for it. Pay her attention while she desires it and she will be untroubled when you leave the house later. And take care, Salazar, for there are others who would take your prize from you. Your honour is more important than money; remember that. Now, go, I am losing trade."

He bowed his head to her in the same manner he did to the lady Isabelle. It wasn't until he had turned his back, and she had become lost in a mesh of customers, that he recognised the fact that she had used his name. And yet, he had never introduced himself.

"You spent a long time selling a wee bit of thread." Duncan stopped by her stall, watching as she packed away her goods. He was tall and fierce of face, a typical MacDonald.

"It pays me to do so, brother. More time spent with customers means more thread sold, and therefore more money to take home to father. Your expeditions cost money." There was no resentment in her tone of voice, but nevertheless, there was accusation in her words.

Her brother's face remained rigid. "It is my expeditions that keep our land safe, sister, as well you know."

"Does that include your long journeys into Edinburgh that seem to grow in frequency? I don't recall many marauders coming from that direction. I was always under the impression that the place was filled with whores and thieves."

"My business is no concern of yours. Am I not here to offer you and your siblings protection. And you did not seem to make money from all of your clients today. Did I not see you take no payment for an item?"

His gaze made her defiant and uncomfortable all at the same time. "It is my thread to do with as I wish. My gifts are mine to give. Have you not received enough of them in the past?"

"Just be sure, sister, that you bring nothing undesirable back from this trip. No bastards or foreigners." He leaned across the now empty table and she only just managed not to recoil from the stench of beer on his breath. How many bastards had he left in unwelcome places throughout the land? "Father has one picked out for you, and he would not want spoiled chattel, now would he?"

He drew back and glared at her, pleased with his power to dominate. This stepsister had proved troublesome, less biddable than his natural sisters. Had propriety not forbidden him, he would have taken her by now and shown her the true power he had over women.

Rowena watched him walk away with a cold feeling in her marrow. He was a danger, this wild brother, a law unto himself with a small clan of his own once their father died. Once his father died. With her ribbons and threads safely stored in the bag she now carried, she made her way back to their camp, which had been set up on the outskirts of the town. The smell of cooking fires would have guided her there even had she not been able to see the tops of the tents.

She had been treated with suspicion ever since her mother, Helen Ravenclaw, had married Hamish MacDonald. Her mother had been regarded by the rest of her new clan as the strange woman from the hills whose first husband had died – how, no one quite knew. Still, Rowena wasn't as tied to the MacDonalds as her poor sisters were. Alice, Morag and Jane all had no choice but to bow to their brother's wishes. Being the only son was a dangerous thing for a young man; it made him feel invulnerable with no challenge from a male rival.

Morag was there now, standing at the opening to the tent, which had been constructed by the team of men brought along to help with such practical things. Her child-like face scanned the crowds, probably looking for Duncan, ready to please him with rough stews and a smiling face. Rowena kicked at stones viciously, not looking forward to an evening spent in such a constrained atmosphere. The remembrance of Salazar lightened the gloom somewhat, though. His graceful face banished Duncan to the position of mild irritant, and she allowed herself the luxury of feeling happy about their meeting later.

Already a plan was forming in her mind, but she wasn't sure she could execute it in the two days available to her.


End file.
